


Grapefruit

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur dressing, Eames watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grapefruit

Arthur carefully picked up the tails of his shirt, slipping them into his trousers and stuffing them down, taking the time to be sure that everything lay flat and smooth. He pulled his waistcoat on, straightened it, and glanced in the mirror. A dish of pomade sat on the dresser, and Arthur slicked it through his hair, straightening the few wavy strands and pressing his hair down until it was severely, and unfashionably, slicked back. He found this style the most practical in his work.

He wiped his hands on a small towel and discard it to the side, then turning down his collar, forcing the starched points to lie symmetric against the charcoal gray of the waistcoat; he needed the tie. Folded too upon the dresser, for Arthur always took care to determine which pieces of clothing he would wear before he actually wore them, was a thin black tie. He picked it up and with just a few swift moves, knotted it around his high collar, tight under his chin. He turned to his wardrobe and plucked a black frock coat from it before swinging it over his shoulders and his arms into the sleeves, the heavy fabric settling almost gracefully over him as he had always imagined that armor would, and Arthur quickly fastened the small buttons at the front.

He spared a brief glance out the window, frowning at the hackneys clattering by. He checked the pocket watch on the bureau. At seven o’clock in the morning, it should be _much_ quieter.

He checked his appearance once more in the mirror – it was immaculate and serious, just as he wished – and took in a deep breath.

“Are you quite finished?”

At the first intonation of Eames’ voice, Arthur turned, and raised an eyebrow at the figure lounging across his bed.

“Yes, I am,” Arthur replied, turning back to the mirror. “But I would hardly expect you to recognize the fact, given the lamentable state of dress that you persist in leaving the house wearing.”

Eames smiled up at the ceiling and turned his head to look at Arthur in the mirror. He winked. Arthur rolled his eyes back, and Eames sat up, the sheets gathering around his hips and his thin nightshirt hanging low, exposing his chest. Arthur stopped attending to his own toilette and watched the man.

“If I wore anything better, my dear, I fear that you would hesitate to divest me of it,” he said as he leaned forward and stepped off the bed. The nightshirt fell to mid-thigh, shifting tantalizingly with his every movement. “As it is, you cannot wait to get me out of my…’rags’.”

Despite the temptation, now was not the time for Arthur to be removing Eames’ scant clothing. He tore his gaze from the mirror, and left the room without a word, leaving his bowler behind as well, he realized a moment later. Damn. He couldn’t leave the apartment without his bowler. But he refused to go back just yet.

Arthur decided suddenly to take not the regular stairs, but the narrow servants’ flight in the back. It led down to the kitchen, and as Arthur unfastened the small door and ducked out into the brightly clean room, he smiled.

A pile of fruit rose high in a bowl that rested on the counter. The landlady must have left it for them – as well she should, with the prices that she charged for every aspect of their residence, including looking the mirror and sleeping with the window shut, Arthur suspected. He deftly snatched a large grapefruit up, tossed it into his other had, and snatched up a paring knife in the same motion. He cut into the fruit as he walked, and by the time he had pushed through the door into the parlor, his smile had vanished and dark juice was dripping from his hand onto the floor.

For there was Eames, lying across the settee, legs hanging off one end and neck bent over the other, completely naked expect for Arthur’s bowler, held discretely over himself. Juice dripped to the floor as Arthur’s grip on his fruit tightened further. He moved forward, sliding easily to his knees next to the settee. Eames didn’t look at him.

“You forgot something,” he said, beginning to lift the bowler up to hand to Arthur.

Arthur reached out and stopped him. When Eames looked down at him, mischief dancing in his eyes, Arthur moved forward and kissed him, bracing himself against Eames’ chest. It was only when Eames shivered that Arthur realized he still held the grapefruit.

He backed up, looking down on the mess he had made. Dark juice spilled across Eames’ chest, and the fruit’s flesh sat, half crushed, in Arthur’s hand. Carelessly, he tossed the fruit onto the rug underneath them, and leaned forward.

Eames laughed throatily as Arthur’s tongue touched his chest, and Arthur smiled, though Eames couldn’t see it.


End file.
